


NO LOVE FOR THE OLD MEN

by Honmyo_Seagull



Category: All New Wolverine, Dark Avengers (Comic), X-Men (Comicverse)
Genre: Character Death announced, Dementia praecox, Facing impending death, Family, Family Bonding, Family Feels, Family Fluff, Grumpy old killer, Love that doesn't say its name, M/M, Meet the Family, Old Age, Slight AU since we assume Daken is alive in this continuity…, This one is not exactly happy, the author seems to be working through some stuff
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-02-19
Updated: 2021-03-05
Packaged: 2021-03-15 17:48:44
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 12,092
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29562846
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Honmyo_Seagull/pseuds/Honmyo_Seagull
Summary: Old Woman Laura is queen of Madripoor in the future. A perfect future she'll never get to enjoy because she's dying. And now she has to tell her brother. And gets a glimpse of a part of his life that has always been off limits to her. Old Man Bullseye is king of jerks. He enjoys the little things because he's dying. And he gets a glimpse of how far gone he is already. (And incidentally one of his somewhat sister in law.) Daken has feelings. (Newsflash: he doesn't like that.)
Relationships: Daken Akihiro & Laura Kinney, Daken/Bullseye, Daken/Lester - Relationship, Laura Kinney & Bullseye incredibly
Comments: 13
Kudos: 14





	1. Stealing a Killer's Thunder

**Author's Note:**

> The storyline of OLD WOMAN LAURA in Tom Taylor's All New Wolverine run was very nice. But honestly I've felt robbed of any Daken & Laura interaction we could have had, because Daken was dead in the main continuity at that time. So I guess this whole fic is a kind of a What If?

**NO LOVE FOR THE OLD MEN**

**CHAPTER 1: STEALING A KILLER'S THUNDER**

Laura… She doesn’t _want_ to be here. She _has to_ , though. She’s committed. It’s part of her battle plan. Obviously, she doesn’t stop to contemplate the irony that her battle plan is to _not fight_ what’s happening to her and mostly just put things in order…

She’s dying. This is a reality that’s hard to accept, even harder to even apprehend. But symptoms are starting to show, she can feel the little things now, the tiny signs announcing that her defective clone body is breaking down. So she has to take action, she has to keep for herself this little bit of control, can’t let the truth escape her by accident. She’ll tell people on her own terms. And she has a lot of people, now. That’s what makes her want to scream. She’s got a family, friends, things she didn’t know even existed once, or could have, or deserved. She’s happy at last, she’s built her perfect future with her own hands and the mere thought of not getting to enjoy it makes her want to tear things apart. (Only, you can’t tear defective cloned genes apart.)

But it’s never been easy for her to express things, express herself, so, all that’s left is the plan. Back to square one: she doesn’t want to be here, in front of the ornate gate of the luxury nursing home. Even through the grille, the place is meant to look welcoming and homey, but none of this can hide the truth that people come here to die, albeit comfortably. One second she reconsiders passing the threshold. _You are brave_ , she tells herself, and takes a step, then another.

She could have simply _called_ Daken. But she guesses it’s the kind of news you’re supposed to inflict face to face. And if she’s really honest, perhaps there was the thought, at the back of her mind, that she might get one of Daken’s too rare brotherly hugs out of it. It would be nice…

Daken is family. Undoubtedly. Absolutely. But they have this loose way of being close, not like most of the siblings she knows, not like she is with Gabby. The last time she has seen him in the flesh was months ago. (Boxing day. Daken doesn’t do the big family and friends gatherings at Christmas.) Their last real conversation on the phone dates weeks ago. An odd text message here and there, since then. Witty remarks, intriguing pictures sent without context, random book recs. Just enough for her to know he’s not just living his life and forgetting about her. Still, of all, she needs to tell him first.

She has this idea that Gabby will need to talk to somebody about it once she knows, so Daken, as Gabby’s big brother, has to be ready too. Laura feels a little bad to put the burden on him but… Ho, well. She’s dying, she thinks with a hint of vindictiveness. And he’s still as beautiful as the day she first met him. Wolverine’s real son. (And his perfect genes.)

_I’m not going to be jealous_ , she decisively tells herself. She still is. A little. She was so happy, dammit. Everything was _fine_. Just one little piece missing… She was almost there… She’ll _be there_ before the end... _Wait for me, Bellona. I’m coming to get you._ Thing is, there’s a newfound freedom coming with the time limit. She’ll be able to do what she never allowed herself to before, lest she disturbed the delicate diplomatic balance between hers and Latveria’s kingdom… But when she does die, Doom will be left with no guilty party to blame. Admitting she leaves him alive.

But she’s looking too far ahead. First, _this_ hurdle. She’s been walking up the alley and following its bright flowerbeds to the visitors’ desk. She can see the door from here. One, two, three stone steps (or a ramp, for the ones who enter without even the use of their legs anymore). She can even see the bank and the woman in attendance through a small round window in the white wooden panel of the entry door. And suddenly she can’t find in herself the drive to pass the threshold. She’s going to intrude in a part of Daken’s life he’s always been very adamant to keep from her. Too bad it’s the only place she knows for sure he’ll be. He’s going to be _so pissed_ she tracked him through his— Her own snort takes her by surprise. His _what?_

It’s mostly a well-kept secret, but there’s still rumors which have been flying around over the years… Nothing that substantial other than the fact Bullseye and Daken are more often that not seen together. Only, people who have started wondering usually haven’t lived long. But then, many years have passed, the insane hitman has almost been forgotten in the absence of new accounts of grisly feats of killing. Stories are still told on a hushed tone in seedy backrooms, but even them start to feel more like tales than real events.

Looking over her shoulder at the front gate of the nursing home, Laura feels another kind of dread, for there is a time it’ll be her place too, her turn to be discarded in a cheery, charming spot to die. But she often responds to fear with anger, and the burn of this feeling is what makes her push the door, plaster a polite smile on her face and inquire about a guest whose alias she shouldn’t know and still does. (Being a queen and having devoted people at her beck and call ready to do practically anything to get her the piece of information she needs has its perks.)

The woman smiles, kind, but also nonplussed. No much visitors for this patient, then. Somehow, Laura is not surprised.

OoOoOoOoO

“At this hour, you’ll find him in the garden,” the nurse had said.

Well, the garden is huge. The indication thus rather vague. Laura has a little irritated sigh. On the bright side, she knows the scent she’s looking for, it’s been a familiar companion for a long time. And that’s also how she knows that, even though Daken never talks about it, this “thing” he has with the hitman is not just a fling. After all these years, even the word _affair_ would sound… feeble. Because that alien smell is always mingled with her brother’s, a hollow presence she got used to and usually managed to discard from her mind. After all, it was normal to allow Daken his privacy, even if it has always hurt to think he didn’t trust her enough to let her know about an entire part of his life.

(And weren’t there times when she was glad not to know for sure? Hearing about the continued atrocities committed by Bullseye, one of the worst killer _ever_?)

So, the smell is easy to recall. She even feels the tiniest bit eager: for her, it’s always been the scent she associated with curiosity and frustration. Now, she gets to see it with her own eyes, the monster under her brother’s sheets.

Problem is, eventually, it doesn’t get easier from here. The ground is still huge, and patients seem odd solitary mushrooms sprinkled on green grass here and there, everywhere, surrounded or not by little clusters of people in small gathering for a family visit. It’s quiet. Even the visitors are reluctant to talk too loud. (Laura wish they would, though.)

Ho. Cigarette smoke. (When she has seen the little signs _everywhere_ , forbidding it.) Lime-blossom soap, and underneath, a hint of her brother’s scent too. Gotcha. The trace of gun oil she remembers is missing, but she supposes it makes sense. Even Daken wouldn’t let the hitman smuggle firearms in there, right? Unbidden, the catchphrase comes back to her mind. _In his hands, anything becomes a lethal weapon_. It’s not exactly like Bullseye would need the guns anyway…

She catches sight a silhouette, at last, seated on a wheelchair, slouching a little, near one of the garden tables surrounded by a few garden chairs. With a bench nearby. Little spaces like that appear coveted in the rest of the garden, agreeable for the patients to see their family, but nobody seems to have been keen to reclaim the spot from the solitary man. She gets closer and closer, unhurried. And unafraid, which seems to at last catch the attention of the derelict thing in the wheelchair. Who seeing her coming, hastily throws a cigarette butt away.

The terms _ravages of time_ come to mind, looking at the colorless frail form.

She stares. Taking it all in. The flesh and muscles that seem to have melted on the bones and disappeared. The sallow skin. The scar on the forehead that is so faded you have to know who the man is to recognize it for what it is. The only splash of color, above the greyish coverlet hiding the bony legs, is a dark blue long-sleeved T-shirt in a bright fabric with a white thin round collar. (Different from the uniformed pajamas the other residents sport, and she can see Daken’s hand in that.) She feels her own lips curl down in bemusement: it’s also reminiscent of the hitman’s old costume, she realizes. One hand is quietly folded on the thin lap. The other arm is hidden from sight, dangling down the wheel of the chair.

The frail form stares back. A flicker at the corner of an eye betrays recognition.

“Ho, it’s you,” the old man says. The tone is too flat to guess whether she is welcome or not, but the knife that was concealed before now lies in evidence on the coverlet with the two killer’s hands and not protruding from her chest, so.

She’s not one to beat around the bush. The first thing she asks is:

“Are you going to warn my brother I’m here?”

The former hitman raises an eyebrow in disbelief.

“Not my job to protect him from set-ups.”

Laura doesn’t know what to add. She’d have a million questions. But the old man’s face is as engaging as a closed door.

She chooses to sit on the stone bench, because it’s a bit less close to him, but from there she can still keep the former monster in her field of vision. She looks at her watch. It’s a bit antiquated, these days, but it was a gift from Gambit, which she’s practically sure he stole somewhere, so. She’s got patience anyway, she’ll wait for Daken to show.

“It’s nice and warm, today. Let me sleep,” the old man snaps after a few minutes. And he simply reclines back in his wheelchair, offering his face to the sun. Even the slight shift of his body draws a moan of discomfort out of him. She’s ready to jump form her seat, to help. Even if he was a monster once. Even though she wouldn’t know how. But he has already closed his eyes. So she settles back. Time passes. The hitman’s heart awkwardly rhythms the slow crawl of minutes. Its beat is not exactly regular, not particularly strong. It sounds like it might stop any moment, like a clock that hasn’t been winded in a long time.

“I’ve told you to let me sleep,” he suddenly throws. As if her silent presence disturbed him! “You should sleep too, you look like shit. _He_ usually comes a bit later.”

He surprises her. She hadn’t realized he was still watching her. It annoys her, that lapse of her attention, and she hopes it’s not one of the symptoms of something bigger. And it’s not exactly a nice thing to say, too. So she allows herself to retaliate:

“Yes, I’ve heard somewhere old geezers are just like babies. He wouldn’t want you to be cranky for lack of sleep, wouldn’t he?” she needles.

He starts, makes an odd sound, like a laugh too surprised to ring like one.

“My god, you’re actually as bad as your brother. Aren’t you supposed to be the _nice one_?”

But he doesn’t look too troubled. And lapses again in silence. Soon, he snores softly. She finally opts for heeding his advice and lies down on the bench.

It’s the first time in ages nothing is expected from her. It’s all too easy to just let go for a while.

The stone has been comfortably heated by the sunny day. She realizes the discomfort of the light pain in her bones as it disappears, slowly, soothed by the warmth.

She has no time to dodge. It’s only a tiny, tiny pebble. It stings on her temple, on this little patch close to the eye where the skin is so thin and sensitive. Hell, it fucking _hurts_. She has now idea how much time has elapsed. She scowls in the direction of the old man, but his eyes are once again closed, even though the expression on his face is rather smug. She can’t believe he has just done that, just to show that he still could. No, actually, she totally can. She sighs. At least, it’s not the knife he has thrown. There’s that. As if he’d read her mind, the hitman notes:

“You’re so lucky the punk would go ballistic if I tried to stick you.”

She feels herself smiling while falling asleep in the sun. She wonders if Bullseye dares call her brother a punk to his face. It amuses her. She likes the idea, too. That her brother would go ballistic if the old villain tried to stick her. Slumber welcomes her once again on this thought.

OoOoOoOoO

It’s a weird thing that while her body is starting to generally break down, her senses and instincts are as sharp as ever. (The exception being sneaky, sneaky old farts with pebbles, apparently.) The transition from slumber to wakefulness is instant. Her eyes sweep across the lawn, looking for what triggered her reaction.

Someone is coming.

The scent, the gait are familiar. The silhouette is unchanged, Daken still looks like a picture from a magazine. She knows he has noticed her too, his stride has faltered a little, a _second_ , but in a typical manner, he makes a show of not letting anything show. He gets closer and closer, unafraid of the dust of the sandy alleys or of the grass stains as he takes a shortcut through a (forbidden) lawn. Elements wouldn’t dare mess with the perfection of his white suit, surely.

The old man near her still snores softly. When he hears her move to upright herself though, he cracks an eye open.

“Right on time,” he mumbles.

Her brother gracefully balances a cup-holder on his right hand. Even from a distance, Laura can recognize the pricey brand on the two paper goblets. Daken has come to visit his man bearing gifts. And she acutely regrets that none of the beverages is hers. Between the quality of the brand and Daken’s impeccable taste, it would have been a treat. It’s what she gets for visiting unannounced, she guesses. Daken spares her a smile on his way over and she knows better than assume that it means he’s not angry at her intrusion.

“It’s annoying, isn’t it?” she hears Bullseye mutter. He too follows Daken’s progress with an eagle-like attention.

“What is?” she asks, surprised to be addressed.

“How perfect he still looks, that jerk.”

She hums in what she hopes to be a non-committal way, but can’t help but agree in the privacy of her mind. She gets up to welcome Daken. Her brother is indeed as stunning as ever and it feels as much as a comfort as a painful reminder of her own defectiveness.

“And he can’t help but flaunt it, can he?” the killer continues, loud, not caring being heard by the object of his irritation.

Daken is just in front of them, now. He puts his offering on the metallic garden table with care and puts on a smile Laura is not used to: thin, razor-edged, but strangely fond. It’s a smile aimed at the old hitman. There’s something natural about it, it’s well-worn, long-worn. Laura acutely feels like she’s intruding on some private moment. Then, there’s also a bit of provocation when her brother raises his arms a little and slowly turns on himself. It’s not a show of being unarmed, as it could be interpreted in another context, but Daken actually showing himself off, as if to mock the man he’s visiting. Of course he’s heard everything.

“Don’t push it, asshole,” the decrepit man comments. But he _is_ looking, Laura notices. Doesn’t even try to hide it.

“Have you had your fill? Can I sit now?” her brother even adds. And then, without transition: “Hello, Laura,” he acknowledges, as if her presence were totally normal. But she can tell he is a tad thrown off. He doesn’t come closer to kiss her cheek as he usually would. She doesn’t know how intentional it is that he stands now between her and the hitman. There’s something slightly protective in his stance. Of the old man who was once a villain. Does he think…?

“Hey, I’m dying in here!” the old man interjects in her brother’s back. “I should be entitled to a little bit peace, quiet and tranquility. But nooo, you come almost every day. Do I really have to bear the in-laws too, now?” His distaste for such uncalled hardship is clear on his face.

“There’s only Laura. Suck it up,” her brother snaps, without looking at him and merciless.

She can’t help her start, drawing Daken’s attention on her, which she ignores, completely focusing on the old hitman:

“Have you just admitted _to my brother’s face_ and _mine_ that you two are as good as _married_?” she asks, bordering on morbid fascination. The subsequent expression on both their faces is priceless.

“It’s _Lester_. Are you insane? Of course he hasn’t,” Daken says, aghast. But whatever denial her brother chooses to hold onto, she still notices than the hitman, for his part, _doesn’t say a thing_ , though his eyes are as big as a deer’s caught in the proverbial headlights.

Well, at least, now she knows. Even if it breaks her brain a little. Guessing, seeing. NOT the same.

“So, Laura. What are you doing here?” her brother says, appropriating for himself one of the metal chair at the table. He expects her to explain herself, it’s obvious. Laura sits back on her bench, feeling suddenly cotton-legged.

_How do I say that? Why haven’t have thought of how I would say that?_ She finds herself speechless. Daken is frowning, and surprisingly, there’s a hint of a smile at the corner of his mouth, as if he were waiting for the right moment to brotherly tease her about her continued silence. She can already hear him in her head: _Have you come to_ not _talk to me?_ She’d wish she could just wait for him to say just that, and laugh, and tell him about some innocuous family thing. Suddenly, she doesn’t want to utter a word. Tell him will make it all too real.

“She’s dying,” the hitman says.

He’s playing with his knife and not looking at them, too focused on the little blade. Doesn’t see how they’re both suddenly staring at him in astonished silence. He notices only after a moment as he raises his head towards them.

“What? I’m not an idiot! She’s never come here before, she wouldn’t have dared. So, it’s obviously life or death. And you look fine, punk. It’s not _your_ life or death, since you’re here as usual. And it’s not your littlest sister. Or her baby punks that you can’t help but talk about all the time and so much I have to tune you out.”

Daken mouths, “baby punks?”, amused. It’s been years Gabby’s kids are not babies anymore. And Laura thinks her brother doesn’t want to hear the important thing, even though she’s so relieved it’s been said.

“Focus, punk!” the old man continues and puts more emphasis in his voice. Makes sure of catching her brother’s eyes. “She wouldn’t have just fallen asleep in here waiting for you if it was _that_ kind of emergency. And look at her, seriously!”

“Lester, I think you’re getting senile,” her brother drily lets drop. Not impressed. Stubborn. Even with a hint of venom to fight the mere idea of what the hitman says being true.

“Hey, I’m surrounded by people who know they’re here to die. Do you think I don’t know the look? C’mon.” It’s softer, now. Laura thinks she never would have thought she’d hear the infamous Bullseye speak like that one day.

Then, there it is, this the moment Laura had dreaded the most. That very silence on Daken’s part. Her brother is looking at her, but from the corner of his eyes, as if he were reluctant to. His profile is perfect in his youth and stony. She realizes he’s waiting her out, a bit like a predator would his prey. And Laura feels like that frozen prey. If she makes the slightest move, something very bad is going to happen.

But the hitman, he is used to kill things and he mercilessly (or mercifully, Laura suddenly thinks) shatters their silence with a somewhat mean laugh:

“Way to go, lady. You’re stealing my thunder. You’re dying even more dramatically than I am.”

_“Urusei, kisama,”_ Daken snaps. Then his eyes come back on her, oddly pleading. But she hasn’t denied anything yet, _won’t_ , and she sees the moment he really understands. Her brother seems to fold on himself, suddenly, elbows falling on his thighs, hands flying to his face. The gesture seems small but it still breaks Laura a little. She’s so not used to her brother letting show _anything_.

“Ha! Japanese, now. See, you’ve done it,” Bullseye continues. “You’ve upset him.”

“I’m not upset,” Daken spits. But you can tell it’s not mere aggravation in his voice. “I’m reevaluating some things.”

“Just so you know, I could use a hug right now,” Laura blurts, to her own amazement. The way her brother jumps on his feet to oblige her, his eagerness to offer her comfort, the warmth and stalwart strength of his embrace are a balm. Just what she needed. She leans into the hug, if only a little. Daken gives her as much time as she needs. It’s rare. He’s usually the one who terminates hugs.

The squeak of the wheelchair takes her out of the moment. Her instinct makes her face the danger. It’s hard to ignore the memory of who this derelict man is. The hitman has rolled himself to the garden table and has appropriated one of the cardboard cups.

“What?” he says, feeling their eyes on him. He has shattered their bonding and Laura resents him a little for that. On the other hand, maybe she never would have released Daken on her own initiative. Also, Bullseye is totally unapologetic. “Coffee was getting cold. Lesson 101 of dying, girl. Every good little things before matters.”

“Which is probably why you never say thanks when I get you coffee,” Daken sententiously comments while raising an eyebrow. It goes for sardonic but somehow conveys her brother is in no mood to put much heart in it. He goes with the motion, and bizarrely, it gives Laura an idea of her brother’s and his pet killer’s normal conversations. And she’ll take every nugget of information she can from the confrontation. (Bullseye is right. Every good little thing matters. Knowing her brother better is a good thing. If puzzling.)

“Cry me a river, nancy-boy,” the old man snorts in his coffee, already chugging an healthy amount. His small hum of pleasure seems involuntary, though, and all the more genuine.

Her brother ignores him neatly.

“Mine is Chai Latte. Not exactly your thing, if I’m guessing right. I’m going to get you something too, Laura. Give me a few minutes. The café is just at the corner. Then we’re going to talk and you’re going to tell me why you think you’re dying.” And he’s already departing, leaving Laura somewhat stunned.

“Denial, punk? Really?” Bullseye calls after him. “You’re not even waiting for her to croak before beginning with the stages of grief?”

“I’m starting to think you’re really not dying soon enough yourself, little man,” Daken throws back over his shoulder.

The cruelty of the comment throws Laura a little, but then she notices the old hitman looks more amused than anything else by the repartee. Says goodbye to her brother with a raised finger.

There’s a moment of awkward silence. Then, pushed by curiosity, Laura asks: “What has he gotten you?”

“Ethiopian. Bit on the woody side. Don’t remember the name. Coffee black like tar. _Just like my soul_.” It’s obvious Bullseye is quoting her brother and she can’t help her snort. “Damn right,” the hitman acknowledges as well.

Laura glances at the second cup.

Chai Latte. Absently, Laura thinks Daken might be wrong. She probably would have liked it. Ho, hell. Her brother won’t be angry at the dying woman. She grabs his cup on impulse and takes an experimental sip.

“It’s nice,” she says. Some very detached, very ironic part of her mind considers it’s a new thing she gets to discover before she’s gone. Still, she doesn’t keep pillaging Daken’s beverage and puts it back quietly in the cup holder.

“Such a liar,” the old man she’s abandoned with comments.

She sends a frown in reply. She hasn’t _lied_. Not her favorite but better than she expected. This blend was strong and aggressively spicy but sweeter than you’d think on the aftertaste. Just like her brother.

“Not you,” he resumes, and seems annoyed she hasn’t got it: “ _He_ needs time alone to regroup and bottle it all up…” His next pause is punctuated with a last slurp as he finishes his share of drinking goodness. “You know, it’s a trait I used to like once. Because, why would I want to bother myself with his feelings? But now, it just pisses me off. Weird.”

When he rounds on her, there’s distinct resentment in his tone, this time:

“You realize he’s got no one to rely on, now. You were the only one.”

She doesn’t know how she feels about that. _Sad and still warmed_ has no word.

“You?”

“Not here for long. And not our thing. He wouldn’t even dream of it.”

“He’ll have Gabby.” After all, her sister is literally her clone, and has grown to be such a wonderful woman.

“Ho, come on. He loves the girl, sure. He’ll protect her for you, which is exactly what you want.”

Laura flinches. _Touché_. Then she remembers the other catchphrase of the old man’s infamous past. _Bullseye is magic. Never misses._ Of course.

“Gabby can take care of herself.” Which is true. Even though Laura feels like she’s lying. She _did_ want to ensure Daken would be there for their sister.

“But _he_ won’t lean on _her_ , you know it too.”

So it’s how Bullseye wants to play it, right? Pelt her with all the uncomfortable truths? She can do it to!

“Do you love my brother?”

He stares hard at her. It takes him a moment to put words on his shock: “ _No!_ Who do you think I am?”

It’s not the tang of lie on his skin. More like… It smells a bit like wariness. Disbelief, maybe? She’s not sure. She realizes she’d have wished to hear a resounding _yes_. Even if it’s Bullseye she’s talking to.

“I’m Bullseye,” the old man in the wheelchair mutters with intent, and to nobody in particular. As if it explained everything. His gaze gets lost for a while. She doesn’t push.

**TO BE CONTINUED NEXT WEEK**


	2. Interlude: ALL THE RED DEVILS ARE HERE

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Just a short one. The secret life of Daken all this time. How Bullseye got there too. What Laura will do now.

**NO LOVE FOR THE OLD MEN**

**CHAPTER 2: ALL THE RED DEVILS ARE HERE**

OoOoOoOoO

_He’s Bullseye. One day, he kills the Devil. The red devil whose continued existence had plagued him for years. He thinks even Daredevil knew. That this was how it would end. It was always going to be him._

_It should have been awesome. It felt anticlimactic. Leaving behind an emptiness like a chasm in him, that nothing could ever hope to fill. Like nothing would ever hold his attention again. What’s the point of hitting targets if they’ll never be worth it anymore?_

_For a while he disappears, and the whole world breathes a sigh of relief. The hero community mourns. And rages._

_Bullseye has money, Bullseye has time, and now, his infamy will never die. His reputation is set forever. Bullseye feels like he’s dead already. Lives like a ghost in his own skin. Even lifting a sai feels too much like a hassle._

_He devolves so rapidly afterwards… Bullseye still thinks of these days with profound annoyance, if not shame. (When Daken feels like hurting him, he sometimes reminds him of these days.) He becomes a human wreck._

_Maybe it is the old tumor in his brain coming back to life one last time, maybe it is just his mind sinking completely… But suddenly, they’re everywhere. The devils. The red devils. (_ Psychotic break, I guess, _Daken will tell later, with an unconcerned shrug.) He kills one, but there’s still hundred of them, all around him. He goes on a rampage. The more he kills, the more there are. He only remembers in a blur the red silhouettes taunting him every hours of the day or night. He makes a carnage, as far as he has heard. Innocents cut down in the streets like flowers in a field._

_The heroes roar, they’re still mourning their own, and now that? They look for him, hunt him like a dog, ready to end him for good this time. The whole hero community. Before they can descend on him, he comes. The last devil. When all other of the red creatures screamed, this one talks. And talks. And talks. Never stops. The cadence of his words is familiar, but can’t cut through the curtain of rage and fear that inhabits him._

_Worse. This devil doesn’t die. No matter how many times Bullseye stabs him. And he holds him tight, too. Then, oddly, Bullseye remembers a sigh near his ear, intense pain as if he’d been run through and through, blackness. Total, merciful, silent darkness._

_Daken draws him into the shadows and the heroes never find him. Far from the bigger than nature world of the heroes that still clamor for his blood, far from the little world of day to day life of the breathers. Daken takes him to the underworld. Not the one of the dead. The one of the thieves, the killers, the criminals. The shadows Daken knows better than anyone to navigate, for he lived in hiding for decades in them._

_Bizarrely, when Bullseye opens is eyes at last, when the world comes back to him deprived of the menace of madness, the shadows can be a luxurious hotel room flooded with light, too. The bed sheets are soft and cool. A cushion of soft drugs supports him gently and shields him from the distant pain, the one of three little points piercing his torso (_ Have you skewered me? _Bullseye will ask, later._ Don’t complain _, Daken will tell him.) Near his hand, under the sheets, there is a blade. He palms the handle, feel the edge with his thumb, the pulp of his finger at once burns with the sharpness of it. A little detail that makes him feel oddly at peace._

_In the distance, he recognizes the punk who’s completely disappeared from his life a few months ago, without warning, roughly when his sister had started laying the foundation of a new mutant country in Madripoor. (But no way he would have followed the punk at the other end of the world. He still had unfinished business in the Kitchen at the time. No way Daken would have asked, anyway. He knew.)_

_The punk is just as he remembers him, when he knows years are starting to show mercilessly on his own face. There’s a dull ache in the familiar sight, Daken oblivious of him, seated near the huge bay window, reading. (Keeping watch, too. He’ll hear the devils if they come back, Bullseye is sure.) For now, Bullseye decides to bask in the feeling of safety and closes his eyes._

_When he opens them again, the light in the room is orange with dusk. Daken is just where he left him, only the book is closed. And he’s talking. But it’s funny. Daken is talking_ at _him. Not_ t _o him. Has no clue he’s listening for once._

_“I don’t even know why I’ve done this. You’re not even useful to me in this state.”_

_He must have made a noise in the bed. Moved under the sheets, certainly. Daken notices at once. Even though his face remains devoid of expression._

_The mutant comes closer and closer. Bullseye lets him. Hand on the knife._

_“Hey, broken little man,” Daken says, leaning over him. But guarded. As he should._

_“Punk?” Bullseye asks, voice still thick. He rolls a lot of questions in the simple word._

_Emotions battle on the mutant’s face, like ripples on water, and it’s fascinating to watch. Surprise. Wary relief. A hint of something softer, alien on these features. “I’ve got you,” Daken says. And bizarrely, it answers all of Bullseye’s interrogations._

I know _, he’s tempted to answer. That’s the closest he’s been, he thinks, to admit what the punk has become over the years. That constant presence. The_ only _constant. Not that he craves it particularly or need it, but he got so used to it… And missed it while Daken was gone. But he’s got Daken now, and he knows it. So he stabs him, obviously._

_And Daken laughs in delight and punches him in the face, the asshole. (Bullseye sees stars. But never sees the red devils again.)_

_Daken nurses him, feeds him, complains all the while, fucks him too. Disappears for days at a time once he’s a bit better, then comes back. And still the emptiness is still there. Like there’s no thrill left in the world. Bullseye hardly has the strength to leave the bed. He lives like a log afloat on the sea._

_And one day, Daken is seated at the other end of the mattress, computer on his lap, talking about people he needs dead for reasons Bullseye hasn’t been really listening to. He’s babbling about a wicked security system, too, and that feels like a little nudge to his attention, he starts working a way to defeat it in his head. His burglar days are behind him, but still. Then, the last outrage:_

_“Who should I use, you think? Deadpool or Taskmaster?” the punk seriously asks._

_“The. Hell!”_

_Daken smiles, wicked as sin. And the punk gets a knife in the eye for his trouble. Bullseye takes the job, obviously. And he has fun. It feels good to discover fun still exists._

_“I might not know how to build, so I’m going to destroy. That I am good at. I’m going to destroy everything that stands in her way. Do you fancy a steady job? I’ll make it worth it,” Daken offers one day. He offers money. He offers himself. Bullseye figures it’s a good bargain._

_From this moment, Daken points and Bullseye throws. The hitman gets so busy that he doesn’t even care when he hears somebody has taken the mantle of Daredevil again._

_And when Bullseye starts to actually listen to what the punk is trying to accomplish, he realizes: at last, someone gets how to wield him, not like a tool, but like the weapon of destruction he is, like he deserves. To do incredible things. It’s glorious. Daken is not trying to build an empire, this time. He’s just leveling the playing field of the_ whole _underworld. For someone else to build on it. (Or in spite of it.)_

_The punk doesn’t mind getting his own hands dirty, sometimes even kills with him (these are the best nights) even if he has to act with discretion so that his sister never finds out what he’s doing. Bullseye discovers the joy of hunting as a pack. He thinks Daken likes it too. Bullseye gets the punk to enjoy himself more. Sees him smile more. And that is addictive. They do great bad things. One day, Laura Kinney, Wolverine, becomes queen of Madripoor. She changes the world. And she has no idea how they contributed to pave the way for her from the shadows of the criminal underground. (After all, all the ones who had an interest in seeing her fail are dead, now.)_

OoOoOoOoO

“I think, it makes a difference, to hear it,” the sister says, sighing somewhat mournfully.

It brings the hitman back to the present. He has no idea how much time has elapsed. It happens often, these days. It’s annoying, losing time like that, when he already hasn’t much left… He has to concentrate to remember the thread of the conversation and make sense of her last words. ( _Do you love my brother?_ ) Hear _that_ word, then.

Bullseye snorts. Daken is he worst liar he knows. (As in, _he lies the most_ , not as, _he’s not good at it_ , obviously.) Daken wouldn’t trust the words, anyway, the hitman is sure. Even if Bullseye could say them with a straight face. Even if he were meaning them. (Which he obviously wouldn’t be. Psychopath, remember? And Daken has never forgotten to remember…)

“Not for us,” the old hitman simply comments. Certain.

She sends him a pitying look.

OoOoOoOoO

Daken has brought her back what he calls a Viennese coffee. It’s sin in a cup. It’s not just coffee with chocolate. She can tell the indecent amount of whip cream, the sharper kick of coffee and chocolate liquors. Hell, there’s a sprinkle of dark chocolate stuck to the corner of her lip when she explains to him what’s happening to her and that she doesn’t want to fight it.

“You do whatever you want, Laura,” Daken simply says.

“I thought… I thought you would try to change my mind.”

She doesn’t know whether she feels relieved or the tiniest bit disappointed. And sometimes, she forgets how fine-tuned Daken’s senses are, how he wouldn’t be able to toy with people’s emotions as well as he does if he weren’t able to keenly gauge them.

She never sees the move coming, even though it wasn’t that swift, in this particular way he has. Just like that, his hand is around her throat, tight enough to constrict but not enough to choke. It pulls her up, makes her stand to face him squarely. Her feet only almost leave the ground. But it wouldn’t take much else for the move to feel overwhelmingly threatening.

“Change your mind?” he bitterly repeats, and she gets at last how much the absence of feeling before was only a crafty mask. “I would like nothing more than being able to do just that, you know?” he spits to her face. A sudden feeling of acute despair suddenly slams into her, almost tipping right into rage and aggression. “Hell, I’d beat the very idea of giving up out of you if I thought for one second it would work.”

She’s taken aback by the display of raw emotion. From the corner of her eye, she catches a glimpse of the old hitman, staring, griping his armrests, almost trying to rise from the wheelchair. His intent is unclear, and she has really no time to further think about it. Daken’s ire consumes all of her attention. Because even if he’s her brother, she _won’t_ be bullied.

“But?” she coldly asks.

And suddenly, like a door banged shut, Daken reins it all in. She is left gasping with the sudden change in the atmosphere. Like hitting a air hole in a plane. He releases her.

“But we’re both too old to fight like children and we’ve been told how to live for too long to accept it again from anyone else, have we?”

She’s the one hugging him, now. Fierce.

She’s not sorry for her choice, but… “I’m sorry I’m hurting you,” she tells him. He snorts in reply. His breath tingles in her neck.

“You would be the first,” he deadpans. He still embraces her back.

“Do I really have to be subjected to that?” the hitman groans in their back.

OoOoOoOoO

“I’ll see you out,” Daken offers her.

“Finally,” Bullseye mutters. But Daken seems adept at ignoring him.

The hitman doesn’t bother to say goodbye to her. (So she doesn’t either, maybe even vaguely relieved.) The old hitman simply turns his chair to face the last rays of the sun. “I’ll be waiting for you,” he crossly tells her brother.

Daken companionably takes her arm. It feels nice, walking like that, the two of them. How come they’ve never done it before…? She enjoys a lot better crossing the garden, this time.

Then, Laura notices something. Some of the other patients greet Daken like an old acquaintance. He’s been coming here for so long, then?

“Is it hard?” she asks out of the blue.

“What?”

“He’s so _old_.” But on the other hand, she has lost Julian so young… Wouldn’t she rather have him, even like that?

“Ha, Laura,” he says, and holds her closer. Maybe he feels her melancholy on her scent, she wouldn’t get it past him. The surprising thing is him acknowledging this. “It’s not hard. It’s worse. How do I explain… Tomorrow he might be dead… and still breathing. Dead to me, I mean. You’ve caught him in a good day. Sometimes I enter his room and he doesn’t even recognize me. For days, at a time. Every time, you can’t help but think it’s the end. But you still come back for more, because, well, the body is still here, so…” He has a light laugh, laced with dark humor. “You can think of it as an inoculation, perhaps? He is vaccinating me against his death. I’ve lived it so often, now, it’ll be easy when it really comes.”

Her brother is such a liar. Her head falls on his shoulder.

“I notice it takes me dying to get candor out of you,” she wryly comments. After all, he actually admitted how hard it was. It’s a start. He looks horrified by her words. “Am I milking the situation too soon?”

“I have already one jerk in my life milking his impending death for all it’s worth, thank you very much. Please, could you not remind me too? I know you’re dying, you’ve just told me,” Daken grumbles.

“Are you going to tell him you love him before he dies, then?” she sententiously asks, keeping track of her train of thought. But she often forgets what a manipulator Daken can be:

“Is it your way to tell me _you_ want to hear that I love you?”

Because she very, very much would like that, she instantly forgets all about the hitman.

He whispers something in her ear as he embraces her again.

She gets to keep the words with her before she leaves. It really makes a difference. Grounds her more.

_TO BE CONTINUED NEXT WEEK._


	3. RAGE AGAINST THE DIMMING OF THE LIGHT

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Bullseye is lost. He doesn't know how much. Daken cares. He doesn't know how much.Laura is loved. She gets to know how much.

**NO LOVE FOR THE OLD MEN**

**CHAPTER 3: RAGE AGAINST THE DIMMING OF THE LIGHT**

OoOoOoOoO

“ _You do whatever you want, Laura_ ,” Bullseye mimics as the punk comes back. “You’re such a liar!”

“What are you talking about?” Daken reaches for his forgotten Chai Latte, makes a disgusted face when he realizes it’s long gone cold and there’s not much left in the cup.

“You’re _thinking_ ,” he says like it’s an accusation. It’s plain on the punk’s face. The hitman can already see the gears starting to turn.

“Most of people do, even though it’s a foreign concept for you, I guess. You never think, always acting on your… whims. _Ho, I’m gonna kill him. And him. And him. Oh, and her. And that._ ”

He’s too used to it to get pissed when Daken puts an innocent expression on his face and resorts to disparage him to deflect. Wonders why the punk still tries, though. It’s been years since his little tricks haven’t borne any fruit. Bullseye ignores the sentence altogether.

“What are you going to do?”

“Being underhand, as usual. That’s what I do best.”

Daken shrugs, in a _no big deal_ way. But _it is_ a big deal. It leaves Bullseye close to astonished:

“Be still, my heart. A truth in your mouth!”

“Don’t get used to it, love,” Daken dismisses again, looking into space, still working his little plans in his head, hardly interested in his own answer. Probably hasn’t even realized the wording he has used. It’s scarcely a declaration, _at most_ a mild endearment.

Still, the word lands like a blow right under Bullseye’s ribcage.

_Ho._

Be still my heart, indeed.

OoOoOoOoO

The old man wakes up. His mind is a bit foggy. And there’s a stranger in his room. So he stares.

“And day three. I guess it’s the end, huh? He’s not coming back?” the young man says and stares back. Holds his gaze for a long moment. Even though the old man puts all the animosity he can in his own glare.

Then the visitor sighs. He goes to stand near the window, has now his back to him. He wears jeans and a threadbare grey T-shirt whose sleeves have been cut. He’s got leather at his wrists, a thin chain dangles from his hip, tied to the wallet in his back pocket. And there’s that impressive tattoo, that crawls on a arm and then hides under fabric, peeking out at the nape and the shoulder. And don’t even get him started about the hair… A real punk.

The old man feels himself scowl at the intrusion.

“Who are you talking about?” he demands to know more than asks. Not trying to hide his annoyance.

“It doesn’t matter, darling. How are you feeling today?”

_Darling_? The nerve of that kid! And speaking like a nancy-boy, he is.

“Cranky. I wake up this morning to find an asshole in my bedroom.”

“It’s after noon,” his visitor cautiously says.

The old man frowns, feeling uncertain suddenly. It makes him even more angry, and it must show on his face.

“Don’t worry, I’m leaving. I’ve left your coffee on the bedside table, little man.”

_Little_ …? Kids, these days…

“Punk,” he mutters at the retreating back.

The young man turns on his heels at the word and looks like he’s just been gutted. The old man gets a somewhat perverse satisfaction from it.

His visitor’s eyes go dark, then, it feels like he emits anger like waves. The old man almost wants to cower.

Then, the punk in question puts a provocative expression of unholy glee on his face. ( _Liar_ , is the thought that comes to the old man, unbidden, unexplainable.) He shows him a finger just before he passes the door.

Still, once the young man is gone, the silence in the room gets oppressive, really quick.

Bullseye wakes up from a doze, later. His mind is a bit foggy. And there’s nobody in his room. But there is his usual cup of coffee on the bedside table. So he stares. When he reaches for it, it is cold.

Suddenly, he feels very cold too.

OoOoOoOoO

The next day is a rainy day. He won’t be able to take the wheelchair outside. So he doesn’t even bother to leave his bed. He tries to remember if Daken is supposed to show up. He’s not sure. It annoys him. He feels restless all morning. Then, the afternoon comes, and so does the punk.

“You’re late,” Bullseye snaps at him as soon as he passes the door. Something that’s not exactly a flinch animates for a brief second Daken’s face.

“Ho, it’s really you,” he replies a bit belatedly. He shrugs off an elegant raincoat. Even the crappy light in the room catches the few raindrops in his dark hair.

“Who else could it be?” Punk is a weirdo, today.

Daken stares, silent a tad too long.

“Nevermind. Figure of speech,” he shrugs. There’s a flatness to his tone, though. And he seems reluctant to let himself further into the room. It’s _really_ annoying.

“Ho, gimme!” the hitman says, noticing the cups Daken has with him. Now the punk _will have to_ get closer.

Bullseye lunges, when he does. Grabs the punk by the arm on impulse instead of reaching for his coffee.

“You know I live to hurt you, right?” he snarls. And God knows what he means by blurting that, because he’s not so sure himself. But he’s sure he got Daken, and good, and it irks him not to know _how_.

“Yes, Lester, you haven’t changed. Still trying to kill me,” Daken says through gritted teeth. “Only you’re doing it excruciatingly slowly these days.”

“ _Excruciatingly_ ,” Bullseye snorts. “Always the drama-queen. I know the truth. You feel pain but _nothing_ hurts you.”

Daken sighs. Impossibly, age shows on his face for a second.

“I wish,” he says. And without elaborating: “I won’t be here for a few days.”

“Why?”

“Things to do.”

It’s harder to breath, suddenly. _Are you running from me?_ the old hitman wants to ask but doesn’t. Daken will, soon, he’s sure. When he’s tired of his decrepitude. It’s like, inevitable. Bullseye looks in the mirror sometimes. And with the bomb the sister just dropped, Bullseye can see how the punk could be tempted to cut _all_ his losses entirely and disappear like he knows how.

Instead, “Be back soon,” he says. “The nurses are bitches when you’re not here to sweet-talk them or ride their ass, whatever you do to them.”

“Aw, you’ll miss me?” the punk teases. But he sobers up quickly. “Lester, seriously. Don’t kill the nurses.”

“No.” He rolls his eyes. He’s not stupid. If he does, nobody will know, not even Daken. “I’m just saying, don’t keep me waiting. I’ll be there when you come back.”

“But that’s the point, dear. If only I were sure it will be you!” Daken whispers, more for himself than to him. And while the old man tries to decipher this, the punk leans in his direction, suddenly, and Bullseye is too surprised to dodge. The peck on his lips is small and impersonal. Detached, like Daken is still in the room but already gone. Bullseye hates it. It feels like a meaningless and miserable afterthought, when Daken’s kisses are usually filthy and earth-shattering and inflicted like you inflict a wound. Where is his merciless punk?

There’s a connection in intent, even if it’s an intent to hurt. And it’s the easiest thing they can share, actually, being who they are. There’s no intent, here.

But that’s the problem, Bullseye finally realizes. Daken resents him for something and he has no idea why. He’s old. He’s an asshole. That’s not exactly new. His body is breaking down, getting slightly ugly, even, but it has never seemed to faze Daken before. (Which had been kind of surprising, for such a vain man.) So what?

The punk must see something on his face, because he rolls his eyes and snaps, bitter and not even trying to hide it, which in itself is a warning sign: “Ho, come on! I can tell you from experience: you won’t even see the difference when I’m gone.”

Daken would bite his own tongue. He has let show too much and he hates it. Realizes how much Lester’s decline is _eating_ at him. But that’s the problem. Lester _doesn’t know_ what he’s doing to him.

As unhinged as he’s always been, the hitman has only seen him for who he was. (Daken is still not ready to admit how much he needs it. One doesn't admit to a weakness. Especially not to _Bullseye_.)

Not a defective, messed-up monster, like Logan did, who never wondered what laid beneath the killer genetics and what Romulus had made of him, who never tried to _look for_ who his son was.

Not a loving brother (which he is, mind you, and to his own everlasting surprise), though one who has to rely on Laura’s selective blindness. Because she peeks under the surface but refuses to look too closely at the package. Because if she really knew him, what he’s capable of, if she _really_ knew, he has no doubt history would repeat itself and she would be the one holding his head underwater.

Lester has taken it (him) all in. Has never picked and chosen. And he’s come to rely on that. More than wisely. Because it’s easier to know who he is, under the hitman’s merciless gaze…

Daken is in pain even if he’ll never admit it out loud. So he wants to lash out. Only Lester is too feeble, it’s been a long time physically retaliating is not an option anymore. So Daken does the cruel thing. He takes out a little microphone. And shows Lester how lost he already is. (To the both of them.)

OoOoOoOoO

Bullseye is surprisingly good at keeping his fear at bay. He hears his own voice in the recordings. Totally grasps the extent of the deliquescence of his mind. Hears this old cantankerous stranger speaking with his voice and not knowing who he is, who the punk is. Part of him knows he should be terrified.

It’s easier to focus on the punk’s rigid stance which doesn’t want to reveal a thing while he mercilessly reveals Bullseye’s weakness. The punk’s stillness while they listen to the ruin of his mind. The punk’s face, still perfect and beautiful. The punk, still here. In spite of everything.

Bullseye has always known Daken is some kind of a sadist. Not that he likes pain for pain, you know? The punk rarely inflicts physical pain just for the heck of it, he usually has an ulterior motive (or more than one), doesn’t do anything for free. But he is familiar with cruelty. It’s not the claws you have to fear, it’s the tongue, the lies, the manipulations, always. That explains the recordings.

Bullseye has always known Daken is some kind of a masochist. Because he’s so familiar with pain, it’s become some usual state, maybe. He finds a kind of comfort in that, pain being what he knows best. Maybe. So maybe, Daken has wanted to record the extent of his own loss. That explains the recordings.

“Voice is the first thing you forget, it fades very quickly,” Daken matter-of-factly notes out of the blue. Daken who already thinks of the days to come, when Bullseye is not there at all, pushing daisies. And, god knows why, wants to remember. Him.

Bullseye has always known that he doesn’t know Daken at all. _That_ explains the recordings.

“There are other recordings when I’m me, then?” It seems strangely important that there should be, suddenly.

“Hn.”

“Can I listen to them too?”

“Sure.”

They spend their afternoon listening to snippets of the last month, the good and the bad, without exchanging a word. Lulled by their own voices, Bullseye’s mind wanders.

He will never admit how jarring it had been, to get used again to sleep alone, after getting into this goddam place. He wonders if the punk has felt that way too, that he often feigns to leave at the end of the day, only to sneak in unnoticed to be there at nights too, as much as his activities (whatever they may be these days) allow.

When Daken leaves the room without saying goodbye, and knowing that the punk won’t come the next few days, the old hitman guesses he’ll be back later tonight. Sneaking in here after the official visiting hours. So he fights the light doze that sometimes comes after dinner. It’s the first tendril of fear he allows himself to feel since the punk’s revelation. He wants to be himself when the punk comes back. So he holds tight to his wakefulness, and to the blade in his palm. Pain becomes his ally, tonight.

OoOoOoOoO

They fuck, that night.

The old hitman doesn’t even begrudge Daken the use of his pheromones to get him started, these days. He’s ready to beg for it. “Do it,” he says. Asking to be touched so Daken can fan the sensations. Asking the punk to push his decrepit body to its limit. Sex is less violent, more languorous, these days. It’s not a real choice, but the old man he has become can live with that. (Can’t live _without_ it. The day he’s not even able to do that, claim and have what’s his, he’ll probably pull a Laura and give up too.) He also makes Daken turn off the lights. Not sure he’s sparing his own vanity or shielding himself from the disgust he fears to see on Daken’s face one day. They have to be silent, too. Not to be heard by the staff. He misses the time when he could make Daken _scream_.

Bullseye feels himself on the brink of sleep, his breathing already deep and slow. His body is melting itself in the loose embrace, he’s going to let go of consciousness altogether any minute, now. There’s a deep sigh against his nape. The old man knows Daken probably thinks he’s already gone in sleep for good. It only took him _decades_ mastering the trick to be able to grab this little moment when he can fool the mutant and catch him when he’s not as guarded as he should. He waits for it. _Them_. The words Daken would never tell _him_.

“I’m never loving anyone ever again,” he hears. “It’s not worth it.”

Bullseye doesn’t let show anything, fights the impulse to still completely in stupor, or even stop breathing. Which would be a mistake, because Daken would know he has heard. The L-word is hanging in the air, out in the open. It doesn’t matter whether Daken is talking about him, or about his sister. A psychopath! Hah! He’s always known the punk was a fraud.

“I should have killed you the first moment I started thinking you were more than an entertaining plaything…”

Ho, so it’s really about him, huh? The ghost of the words suddenly feels _so_ hot against his skin… Dammit, the sister is right about the difference when actually _hearing it_. But with the hint of pure despair lacing the words, it’s the first time the old hitman can honestly say that he’s glad he’s going to be the first to go. (Even though Bullseye doesn’t do _Love_.) And isn’t that a depressing thought to fall asleep on… He’ll stab Daken tomorrow if he’s still here when he wakes up, that maudlin’ punk.

Obviously, Daken is gone, in the morning. Disappears completely for the next few days as announced.

Bullseye prepares himself. Tells himself he won’t see him ever again. What’s the point, after all? What Daken gets, being here? The old man convinces himself he’s not bothered one bit by it. He’s not sitting every afternoon in the garden waiting. He just likes to enjoy the air outside, that’s all.

OoOoOoOoO

“You took your time,” he says without rolling in the bed to look in the window’s direction, a few nights later, when he hears the noise of the latch and the soft telltale crack of the wooden frame Daken always lets him hear not to startle him when he comes by.

“Huh,” he hears. It’s the wrong voice.

“Fuck! What are _you_ doing here!” he spits, turning to see at last. The. Sister.

“Well, at last you recognize me, this time,” she notes, drily. “You tried to kill me, last time.”

“And trying to kill you is a sure way to tell I didn’t recognize you?” he tries to cover up, taken aback. She has been here? When? “You remember who I am, girl?” he adds, pointing to the fading scar on his forehead. But he represses his shiver of unease in front of her. He has been losing his mind more and more these last few days. He knows that. Feels a bit better today.

Bullseye has found a laconic text on his phone this morning. (Who still sends text messages, these days? And without abbreviations or holo emojis? The punk, that’s who it is.) And then later in the afternoon, he has received as much as an embryo of explanation and a vague ETA, for tonight, in a brief call. Has even told Daken he didn’t care. Punk smoothly has answered he knew, he was just being polite. Guests don’t drop on people unannounced. (Should tell that to his sister, dammit.) The old man won’t admit the relief he has felt not to have been simply forgotten in there. Bullseye’s been feeling more like himself ever since.

She’s absentmindedly rubbing a spot near her sternum, the sister. It irks Bullseye. Because if it’s where he got her when he tried to kill her, it means his aim must have seriously sucked. _Tout fout l’camp_ , as Daken would say if he knew, mercilessly sardonic. The prick.

“I’m looking for Daken. Can’t reach him.”

Thinking of the devil…

“He’s doing a… tour. He’ll be back soon.”

“Cryptic much?” She’s annoyed. A bit of the family resemblance with her brother shows in her frown, the curve of her lip.

The text message he got in the morning just said _Doing more research and blackmail._ But he knows his hypocrite of a punk and how he works. It’s not complicated to guess what he researched and whom he blackmailed. And since he’s not Daken’s secrets-keeper, he doesn’t mind sharing with her:

“I bet he’s making incentives to the best and brightest savants and researchers in the field of cloning. Especially the underground and clandestine ones even you don’t know about. So that when you’ve gotten your head out of your ass and you’re ready to fight, you’ll have all the weapons.”

“I…” She looks startled. “That’s what I wanted to tell him. That I’m going to fight.”

“About time,” he snorts. The fact there’s some measure of satisfaction in his words is surprising, as much to her as to him. “It has worked, then,” he notes.

“What has worked?”

“What he has told littlest clone to do.” She is mightily pissed that he used the word _clone_ rather than _sister_ , he can tell, but she lets it pass. (And _he_ doesn’t care.)

They move the same way, she and her brother. Their grace hardly conceals their raw power. She sits in the armchair the punk usually monopolizes. Plants her elbows on her knees, her own face in her palms. Expression stubborn, she’s ready to listen.

Bullseye has seen it all. It happened in this very room. Off screen behind Daken, he has followed everything of the video conversation with the littlest sister. He can recall it almost word for word. Funny, considering he struggles to remember who he is sometimes.

He starts quoting. His mimicry of Daken’s tone is spot on:

“ _I know, Gabby. Yes. It sucks, as you say. No, we’re not taking it lying down. Gabby. GABBY. Let me talk. I’ll handle the practical, as usual. The rest is all on you now, kid. But you can do it. It’s all a question of timing, pulling the right strings and setting an enjoyable aim. She can’t leave the people she loves. She can’t leave_ **you** _. She can’t stop fighting. Anything the world throws her way, she can take it. **It’s not in her genes** to give up or to limit herself or what she can give. **It’s** **who she is**. That, is not broken.” _That moment, Laura’s back straightens up. A strong emotion Bullseye is not at all equipped to decrypt suffuses her face. _“She needs a victory. She needs to remember what it tastes like. She needs to remember she can take things for herself too. Make it happen._ Pure Daken, master manipulator, at work, if you ask me,” the old man finally comments in his own voice.

“Wait,” the sister says, “What does that mean: _I’ll handle the practical, as usual_?”

“Gosh,” he says, full of mockery. “You mean you really never knew… That’s what he says, but… I kinda thought… Never mind.” He tilts his head. “But really? The things he has done for you all this time?”

“Excuse me?”

The old man whistles softy in consternation. “He’s right. You’re meant to thrive in the light.” It doesn’t sound like a compliment in his mouth. “But he’s never been like that…”

It chafes Laura, that he presumes to tell her who her brother is. And that he sees it. But she can’t help but listen.

“He has spent too much time in the shadows, it’s a world he knows how to operate. Who do you think pulled the strings so you managed what you’ve done? Who do you think tamed the underworld into submission, navigating the necessary evils so they wouldn’t get in _your_ way? I mean, I’ve practically been working for him _only_ for years and he sure never let me get bored!”

It feels like a spell of vertigo, to Laura. The little man in the bed is one of the worst killers ever known. And Daken has been the one wielding him for a long time. Her brother is a monster. (Not that she hadn’t been warned. Never listened to Logan, couldn’t bear herself to.) Her brother kills. For her. Thought he _had_ to?

“I never asked him to… do _this_.”

“Nope. But you needed freedom of movement to achieve your goals, and he needed power to give you that.”

“And power comes easy to him…” she thoughtfully, heartbrokenly adds.

_Yes, it does,_ Bullseye thinks. But it escapes the punk just as easily. Because Daken never has felt safe enough, always has needed more. It’s like a fatal flaw. _I blame Logan for that,_ Daken said once, wry and obviously joking, but in a self-deprecating laugh.

He remembers Daken explaining all this to him. (Tries to remember also what could have made the day special, that they actually _talked_. Could they have been that bored while on a stake out?) _So, rather that keep this power, why not relinquish it? Laura knows how to build, I only know how to destroy. So why not use both in the same goal?_ The punk had wanted to see, how far _she_ would go. How high. And she had been _magnificent_. (Daken’s word, not his, obviously.)

But the old hitman can also see how upset she is by what she’s just learned. _Crap_.

“Disown him now that you know, and I kill you, I swear, even if it’s the last thing I do. Trust me, I’ll find a way,” he snarls. His arms shake with the effort to raise himself upward. Or maybe it’s just that anger that comes from nowhere and makes his blood boil, suddenly.

He waits for her tight nod to relax and settles back on his pillows. Her look on him is sizing him up. More appreciative than antagonizing, though.

“He’s always wondered why you never asked him to fight alongside you,” Bullseye suddenly remembers.

And it’s surprise that colors the sister’s expression:

“But it wasn’t a fight you should take because someone asked you to. Only if you wanted to…”

“Exactly… And he wanted to. Not for… the good of the innocents, the mutants, the world, and all this bullshit. For _you_.”

She holds his gaze. Nods in understanding. She gets this feeling again, both sad and warm. What’s done is done, right? And maybe it was a supreme luxury to build her perfect world without getting blood on her hands. She’s not going to lose more of her brother to a luxury.

“Mind if I stay a bit?” she asks, a bit out of the blue. “I feel like taking a nap.” And she stretches her long legs out, crosses her arms comfortably and then reclines better in the back of the armchair with a satisfied sigh.

“Be my guest,” he ironically says, complete with inviting gesture of the hand. As if he had a choice. He can hardly leave his bed alone. He glares at her for a good long moment, but it doesn’t keep her breathing from becoming slow and regular.

He doesn’t feel like sleeping. There’s some books at hand’s reach, which Daken keeps bringing him and he is sometimes desperate enough to read (or so he says to the punk). A few magazines. The great Bullseye, fighting boredom by doing crosswords puzzles… How the mighty have fallen… He takes the pencil to the page, realizes he counted the letters wrong, grabs a little green eraser. Once he’s done removing his mistake, he stares a second at the little green rubber object and throws it in a nice lob. It neatly lands between the sleeping queen’s eyebrows and tumbles down her face to her chest. Daken’s sister frowns, sends a hand to blindly brush off her forehead.

“You’re lucky—” he starts.

“— that my brother would go ballistic if you tried to stick me. I _know_.” Then, after a moment, when he thought she had already gone back to sleep, “Not bad for an old fart,” she adds, still without opening her eyes.

He groans in disgust. He’s starting to like her. 

OoOoOoOoO

“ _Tadaima_ ,” Daken says and lets himself in by the window.

Bullseye thinks the siblings must have missed each other by a hairbreadth. Laura has left hardly half an hour ago.

The punk goes for classy tonight, in a nice tailored suit of a soft grey that shimmers even in the depressingly weak light of the room. Typical of the punk, to scale walls in thousands of dollars garments and shiny shoes.

The old hitman knows what’s the expected reply. Daken tells him every time. _That’s what you’re supposed to answer, heathen little carny._ He’s never said it before, the word. Because it’s not only polite. It’s admitting to be glad of the punk’s return.

“ _Okaeri_ ,” he answers.

Daken registers surprise for a second, then stares.

“Lester…?”

And the hitman hates the uncertainty in the punk’s voice.

“I’m _me_!” he snaps, annoyed. “Com’here.”

“Yes. And I come bearing gifts,” the punk says, cautiously getting closer, holding up a bag of goodness from a nice bakery. “Dessert.”

“Least you could do after letting me to starve in here.”

There. Daken’s small smirk makes a shy appearance.

“And _I’m_ the drama-queen?”

Good, Bullseye thinks. The snark is back too.

And the punk keeps getting closer and closer. As soon as he can reach out, the old man makes a grab for the mutant’s arm and sits him forcefully near him on the bed rather than seeing him take his usual armchair. Daken raises an eyebrow but doesn’t comment. Neatly arranges the sugary little picnic on the depressing coverlet, making it a lot more cheery.

The old man is grateful when Daken abstains to tell him what he’s been up to while he was gone, what he did for his sister that he needed to forget him in there for that. He’s not in the mood to remember he has to share him with his family. They eat. The punk regales him with some gruesome underworld gossips. Then they fall into an easy silence.

Without warning, Daken reaches for the bedside lamp and switches it off. After a while, Bullseye hears the steps of a nurse walking up the hallway behind his door. Daken waits for a long time after the sound dies before he turns the light on again.

“Hey. Tell me who I am,” Bullseye says. It’s easier to remember when the punk is here.

“Ha.” Daken settles himself better against the bed’s headboard with him. “Let me tell you of the exploits of the great Bullseye, killer _extraordinaire_ … And pain in the ass.”

The punk tangles his fingers in his, and Bullseye lets him, can’t help but stare at the contrast between their two hands. It’s obscene. The decay of his flesh insulting the grace of Daken’s long fingers. Still, he holds tight and lets the punk talk him into the night.

**THE END**


End file.
